Composite
by Leafenclaw
Summary: "Sitting on its easel in a corner of the room, the blank canvas taunts her for weeks." Collection of 221b drabbles, most of them Moriarty-centric (though that may change eventually, depending on where inspiration strikes).
1. Unexpected Emptiness - SH x JM

_**Disclaimer: If Elementary was mine, we'd see a whole lot more of Moriarty.**_

**A/N:** A little under a year ago I got stuck in writer block hell. A friend suggested I pick out prompts from an old list on LiveJournal (the 500themes community) and write 221b drabbles for Elementary, so here we are.

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**Prompt: Unexpected Emptiness**

Sitting on its easel in a corner of the room, the blank canvas taunts her for weeks.

She just hasn't had time before, she tells herself, as lazy hours turn into frantic days and a flurry of activity. Business has been booming since she left London. Quarrels between associates to break off, assassinations to organise, new schemes coming to fruition – a thousand little things she hasn't paid much attention to in the last seven months, all obligations neglected in favour of wasting time in Sherlock's bed.

But even the most pleasurable distractions must come to an end. Priorities cannot be allowed to shift when heading an international shadow organisation.

Of all the media she uses to express herself, painting is _hers_. There is no reason for the waxy white canvas to remind her of his face, stark with grief, glimpsed from afar at the funeral. No reason for the memory of him to spark anything but hot, dazzling, and satisfied. No reason for her paintbrush to hover, frozen with unformed dread, and no reason that it should remind her of how her fingers used to hover over his body, thrilled, indulgent – almost tender.

She gorged herself on him for months. Her hunger should be sated.

And yet.

Fifteen minutes later, oils and pigments wash down the drain.

The canvas remains untouched.


	2. I'll Try Violence - JM-centric

_**Disclaimer: If Elementary was mine, we'd see a whole lot more of Moriarty.**_

**A/N:** Prompt taken from the 500themes LiveJournal community. Hope you enjoy the character exploration!

**Warning:** Part of this can be read as either self-harm or harm done onto others so if any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

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**Prompt: I'll Try Violence**

As a girl, she asks them once – family, teachers, the many adults in her life – how to define love.

Something that brings people together, they answer. Something intense and soothing at once, something sharp, pleasurable, striking, something that flushes out sorrow and replaces it with happiness. She nods then, affects to understand – but privately, she thinks there is something wrong with that definition.

Privately, she wonders – _shouldn't that be pain?_

To her, love is candy pink and translucent, something so thin and gossamer frail it crumples between her fingers when she closes her eyes, when she tries to reach for it. Pain, on the other hand, explodes in bright, vivid colours. Pain is deep and powerful, saturated orange and cobalt blue splattered in bold strikes across her skin, its intensity matching her own.

She never needs to reach out to find pain. Instead it finds her, without fail, every time she needs to get away from herself – its sharpness familiar, comforting, and available in a way love never was.

The next time they try to teach her about love and its wonders, about the romantic ideal, about true connection with another or the many ways love can save a soul, she scoffs.

Those ideas – those _ideals _– are ridiculous. Why should love be needed?

Given the choice, she'll choose pain every time.


	3. Reach for the Stars - SH x JM

_**Disclaimer: If Elementary was mine, we'd see a whole lot more of Moriarty.**_

**A/N:** Prompt taken from the 500themes LiveJournal community. Sort of tag to 4x13 "A Study in Charlotte".

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**Prompt: Reach for the Stars**

_Never a good idea, in my opinion. Life is far too fluid for such mementos. Imagine me with a giant "Moriarty" across my stomach_, he jests, staring at his belly a second too long.

He neglects, of course, to tell Watson about Auriga.

Not the constellation, obviously.

Not Irene's – _Moriarty's_ – birthmarks either. Watson was well apprised of his predicament that night. Holding back on the very detail that allowed him to deduce there was more to Irene than met the eye? It would have been foolish. Irresponsible.

What he keeps to himself is the tattoo behind his _own_ shoulder. Nine dots of uneven size scattered across his skin, the largest one – Capella, third brightest in the Northern sky – now replaced with the scar left by a bullet wound.

Sometimes he laughs about it. It speaks of the universe's love of irony that Moriarty and he now both own a scar where there once was a star. But the amusement never lasts. Neither of them won that game, after all, and awareness of the next round looms threatening around the edges of his consciousness.

He should probably regret the impulse that made him walk into that tattoo parlour, a week after landing in New York City.

Fingertips brushing against the raised skin on his shoulder blade, he cannot quite bring himself to.


	4. Why They Call It Falling - SH x JM

_**Disclaimer: If Elementary was mine, we'd see a whole lot more of Moriarty.**_

**A/N:** Prompt taken from the 500themes LiveJournal community. If you like these, feel free to slide into my PM box and request a drabble. I'm a multi-shipper fiend so pretty much everything is welcome. I cannot promise to deliver, but if you ask I do promise to try.

**Warning:** Slight NSFW content, mention of bondage and kink, implied (canon) gaslighting, and musings of murder. If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

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**Prompt: Why They Call It Falling**

He moans, gorgeously spread between her thighs, and the sight of him sparks so hot and urgent she almost forgets she meant for him to die.

It doesn't take much to remember – _Irene_ he whispers, wrists straining against the rope – but for a short moment he belongs to _her_, and coming back from that lapse in judgement makes murder seem easier than summer breeze.

She digs her nails into his shoulders, eager to extract those dangerous daydreams from his skin, and his pained gasp pools low and satisfying above her core. But the look he levels on her when she does – willingly helpless, openly adoring – fills her with confused rage. Pinning him harder to the bed does nothing to help with this terrifying sensation of falling from a great height.

The plan was to break him. She was never meant to shatter at his side.

Later, sprawled over his heaving chest, she purrs as idle hands stroke her back, hating how the thought of his destruction isn't as entrancing as it once was. But those rushing sighs, loud and vulnerable against her neck, hold too much of their own appeal. She closes her eyes. If she cannot kill him, he will be the death of her – and that may have to be enough.

Trapped in his embrace, she dreams of waterfalls.


	5. Whispers in the Dark - SH x JM

_**Disclaimer: If Elementary was mine, we'd see a whole lot more of Moriarty.**_

**A/N:** Doaa asked for Moriarty's reaction to something that happens in the season 7 finale. Here is my attempt to answer.

**Warnings:** Spoilers ahead! If you haven't seen 7x13, stop right now!

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**Prompt: Whispers in the Dark**

"We found him."

"Did you?"

She doesn't look up. Those taxes won't do themselves.

"In the hospital. Overdose."

She pauses. Familiar dread creeps up to her heart, clenches it painfully.

"I heard that song before."

"Boss."

Ellory's voice tones are heavy. She swallows.

"Give me the address."

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"I'm sorry, ma'am. Mr. Holmes isn't allowed any visitors for the time being."

The nurse doesn't look sorry enough for her taste, but she doesn't have time to lose with this. She smiles, then glances at Ellory – _distract this imbecile_. Ellory nods. Five minutes, then she slips away.

His room is easy to find – but the moment she gets close to him, she has a second of doubt. Surely this cannot be Sherlock? Frail and sickly, his mottled grey hairline receding, dark purple dips under his eyes, the man sleeping in that bed looks so –

– _old_.

She hesitates, then sits by his side. His breathing is shallow. His skin is warm. Some of his usual vitality peeks through despite the damage, and she releases the relieved breath she hadn't realised she was holding.

"You cannot die," she whispers, fingertips brushing against his temple.

Lingering is too much of a risk. But his hand clenches slightly around hers, as if he felt her presence in his sleep, and –

– perhaps she can stay a bit longer.


End file.
